Curtain Call
by Zana Banana
Summary: Hatred breeds the strongest of loves.


**Curtain Call**

Hatred breeds the strongest of loves.

She doesn't need a fortune cookie to tell her that.

She drops her broken dessert onto the table. Delicately painted fingernails resume their repetitive dance of impatience with the cloth napkin spread out beside her expired glass of water. An antique clock informs her that she's been at the restaurant for over an hour.

She is sitting alone.

Alone, in spite of the plan constructed—precisely, with _no_ room for misinterpretation, she remembers bitterly—earlier that week.

The place is bustling with activity. Boisterous chatter and laughter are filling the four walls to the brim and spilling over on everyone else but her. The faces range from young to old, all of them talking and not quite listening, all of them unfamiliar.

She doubts anyone is paying attention to the pathetic little girl in the corner, the lone occupant of a booth intended for two.

She doesn't blame them.

Brown eyes catch their own reflection in the floor-length mirror positioned directly across the room. She takes a moment to envy what she finds there; sections of chestnut tresses pulled tight over her ears, the rest reaching for her shoulders in loose waves.

Only a moment, though, because her memories of attempting to tame the curling iron are still very real and very painful.

"More water?"

Nodding, she watches as the middle-aged waitress refills the glass and lowers her hands to her lap to avoid subconsciously pitching it at the next male to walk by. She wonders why she even bothers. People never change. You can give them chance after chance, but nothing ever improves.

Nothing.

A plastic pouch containing a second fortune cookie rolls to a stop at the edge of the table. She narrows her eyes at the retreating waitress, who apparently thinks she needs some sympathy.

No, she doesn't need a practically flavorless distraction. She is fine. Perfectly fine, in fact.

She has every right to smash that pity cookie into a thousand pieces with her fist.

She drops it into the pocket of her blazer instead.

No more waiting.

**0 0 0 0**

She usually enjoys walking alone.

The city shines brighter at night. The moon bathes the streets in its glow, transforming bleak store windows into lively attractions.

It isn't home, but it's enough.

The echoing of her heels—she _never_ wears high heels—against concrete is the only soundtrack. It is the kind of silence ideal for reflection, but she doesn't want to think. She wants to tear down a lamp post.

Every crack in the sidewalk seems to lead straight to him.

Her brisk pace takes her to the grand doors of the Mishima Hotel in no time at all. A concierge greets her politely as she enters and walks swiftly to the elevator. A red ring illuminates the button denoting the third level as she waits, a tapping foot measuring the seconds.

Red, like the blood that will flow from his broken nose.

He's standing outside the door to her room when she arrives. The look on his face tells her he knows what's coming.

"Asuka."

She ignores him, probing the blazer's pocket for her key. Her fingers encounter the packaged fortune cookie.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says, "I'm a complete and utter asshole. Is that what you want to hear?"

A smirk twists the seam of her lips. She finds her key and inserts it into the lock.

"You're just going to ignore me now?" He rests his hand on her shoulder. "Can't we talk—?"

"We _could_ have talked," she interrupts, jerking her arm free from his grasp, "At the restaurant. You know, the one we decided on all of two days ago."

"I didn't forget," he sighs, "I lost track of time. I was sleeping, and—"

"Oh? With who?" she snaps.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"What I know, Hwoarang," she retorts, pushing the door open and stepping inside, "Is that, of all the wonderful gifts you _haven't_ given me, this one is by far the best."

She takes the cookie out of her pocket, studies it for a moment, then hurls it at him. "Here's a token of my appreciation!"

The door slams shut. She leans against it, closing her eyes as she tries to slow her breathing.

"I deserved that." His muffled reply finds her.

Silence befalls the vicinity, but it isn't the same comforting quiet the world outside is experiencing. It is a terrible, sinking sort of silence—the kind that inhabits funerals and hotels where relationships shake and fall.

She realizes she didn't get a chance to punch him, but now doesn't think she can bring herself to do it after all.

Red, like his hair.

Red, like the ink that spelled out her fortune.

Hatred breeds the strongest of loves.

Their love isn't perfect, but it's enough.

At least it is for her.

"You are an ignorant bastard who takes everything for granted," he remarks, ending the reign of silence.

Furious hands clench at her sides.

"And my lucky numbers are twelve, fifty, and thirty-nine."

He looks at her as she opens the door. He's wearing the foolish grin everyone warned her about.

She smiles. "Did you really need a fortune cookie to tell you that?"


End file.
